Passing Through
by blueeyes5
Summary: Revamped! Placed after Town Without Pity but before Ellen. Steve is attacked while saving a young girl. But Steve's not the only target for revenge. Character Death. Please R&R!
1. Power

Ch 1. Power

Steve Sloan heard the scream before he saw its source, and immediately took off running in the direction of the sound. He was on duty, and investigating his latest case, trying to turn what few leads he had into something to make an arrest stick. He'd been about to enter a grocery store to get the surveillance tapes, when the scream had captured his attention. He rounded the corner at a run, mentally congratulating himself on keeping his balance, and kept going. His feet took him to an alley, and down it, still going at top speed. The scream had stopped, and then risen again, sounding muffled; filled with pain and fear.  
He forced himself to pick up speed, reaching for his gun, as he caught sight of two men and a girl down the alley. The men looked up at the sound of his pounding feet, and took off in the other direction: towards where the alley met a busier street. Steve started after them, calling out for them to stop, but one look at the girl stopped him in his tracks. He dropped to a knee beside her and glanced at the quickly retreating forms of the men, holstered his gun, and felt for a pulse. There, but weak. He shook his head slowly, and was just reaching for his cell phone when sudden, white-hot agony blossomed in the back of his head. Seeing stars, but managing to fight off the blackness trying to engulf him, Steve slumped forward onto the girl's legs. Rolling slowly off of her, he turned over and reached for his gun.  
Pain exploded through him again as the figure above him lashed out with a kick to Steve's stomach. Doubling over, his fingers going limp as he wrapped his arms around his stomach, he forgot the gun in the pain. The man picked him up by the shirt and threw him into the alley wall. Stars shone against the returning blackness as Steve's head hit, and he collapsed to the ground. He fought off the urge to vomit and looked up. Another kick hit his ribs and he bit his tongue to keep from screaming when he heard ribs cracking. His right arm was grabbed, used to roll him on his stomach, and pulled up. The man yanked suddenly, placing his foot on Steve's shoulder blade, and breaking Steve's arm over his thigh, the break just above the elbow. Steve again stifled a scream, but was unable to mask a whimper. A fist connected hard with his jaw, and this time the stars stuck around longer. Just as the yawning blackness was retreating he felt something hard connect with the back of his head. The dark, which has just moments ago been fading, rushed back to take him in.

//Power! Oh yes, this was power!// The man didn't bother to stifle his laugh. He'd shown that Steve Sloan. Yes, he'd shown him good. The man kicked Steve again, viciously, in his rib cage and something more cracked. He laughed again, reminding himself to keep it quiet. If he were quiet he'd be fine. Sloan hadn't even put up a fight, and had been so busy not showing his pain that he didn't allow himself to cry out for help. The man had seen how Sloan had bit his tongue to keep from screaming. //Pride,// the man thought, and this thought silenced his laughter.  
The man sent another kick into Steve's unconscious form, all but snarling in hatred. Pride, yes. Sloan had been proud to kill his son, hadn't he? He had sent his son to his death. His son, only just nineteen, had been arrested for robbing a store and beating the clerk for not relinquishing the money fast enough. And Sloan had been the officer to make the arrest. He, and that father of his, had sent his son to prison where he'd been killed: gang beat by the other prisoners and killed before the guards could break up the fight. And now…  
//Now I'll have my revenge. On both of the Sloans.// He smiled as he looked down on the still form at his feet. He was fighting for every breath, but soon he would have none to fight for. Soon...but not quite yet. The man bent, pulled Sloan's cell phone from his jacket pocket, and placed it in the detective's right hand. When he woke up, and he would wake up, the man was sure of that, he would call Community General. He would be rushed to the hospital and his father would be frantically worried about his precious son. And then… The man smiled coldly. //Then Steve Sloan will die, there in the hospital, and his old man will be next. Yes, this truly is power.// In high spirits, the man jumped easily over Steve's still form, and walked away.


	2. A Pained Call

Ch. 2 A Pained Call

Pain, more intense than any Steve had ever felt before, woke with him as he rolled his head to the side. He stifled a moan best he could. Slowly, slowly Steve opened his eyes. The light was like a knife, cutting into his eyes and mind. He fought the urge to snap them shut again. After mentally running his mind over his body and what position he was in, he realized something was in his hand. He shifted slightly to feel what it was.  
A groan of pain banished the silence, and for a moment Steve thought it was him making the noise. There certainly was reason for it, as every twitch of his fingers around whatever he held sent shots of agony up his right arm. He remembered the searing pain when the man had broken it, and winced. Another groan sounded, and this time he was able to hear it more clearly. The groan wasn't coming from him! As he woke further, his mind cleared, and he realized the girl that he had been trying to save was coming around.  
A moment more of painful fumbling told Steve that it was his cell phone he held. Unable to remember pulling it out before he'd been attacked, he shifted painfully to take the phone with his left hand. Wincing, he dialed 911, rolling onto his back again. Giving his location to the 911 operator was difficult, as his fuzzy thoughts wouldn't focus on the street signs he'd passed. Finally managing, he simply dropped the phone and rested.  
"Hello?" A voice startled him, pulling him back awake before he even realized he'd been drifting. It was a small, scared voice, laced with pain. The girl. She must have heard his voice when he was calling for an ambulance. He groaned softly as he opened his eyes again. "Hello?" The voice sounded more scared this time. Focusing as well as he could, he tried to reply.  
"H-...'lo," he finally managed; infuriated that he wasn't able to even speak the simplest of words. But the effort of talking to the operator had hurt his bruised jaw and caused his lungs to burn as if on fire. He coughed raggedly, trying to clear his throat. "He-...'llo," he said again, and went into a coughing fit. Damn it! He'd just spoken to the operator, albeit slowly and rather slurred. Taking a deep breath, the detective realized his lips were wet. He licked them and tasted blood. Grimacing, he realized the girl was speaking again.  
"-You?" This didn't make much sense to Steve's foggy mind, so he didn't answer, hoping she'd repeat it. She didn't, however. Instead, the girl lapsed into silence, and soon he heard her breathing return to normal as she fell asleep. Steve wanted to follow suit. He couldn't remember a time when he had craved letting the painless clutches of sleep take him in more than now. But he knew he shouldn't; could tell from the immense pain and the blood on his lips that he had serious internal injuries.  
//I won't sleep,// he swore. //But...maybe I will close my eyes. The light is so bright and...// He was unconscious before he could finish the thought.


	3. A Friend's Pain

Ch. 3 A Friend's Pain

Jesse wasn't in the Emergency Room when Steve was brought in, so he wasn't aware of his friend's trouble. He was taking a break in the doctor's lounge, and wasn't paged as his colleague Dr. Brian Camdyn was in the ER on duty. Dr. Camdyn was a perfectly competent doctor, but didn't know Steve Sloan. However, Theresa, the nurse on duty, did. So when the crash cart came bursting in the ER doors, she recognized him instantly from how often he hung around the hospital. She immediately ran along side it, taking orders from Dr. Camdyn and doing everything possible to help. As soon as she had a moment she paged Dr. Travis, knowing he would want to be here.  
In the doctor's lounge, Jesse was just pouring himself a second cup of coffee, and chatting with Mark, when the page came over the intercom.  
"Paging Dr. Travis to the ER, STAT!" Jesse jumped, spilling the hot coffee onto his wrist.  
"Ow!" The page had sounded frantic, as if it was life or death. Then again, most injuries admitted to the ER were life or death, especially in a city like LA. Heaving a sigh, Jesse began to clean up the coffee spill. At Mark's chuckle beside him, he looked up, giving the older man a mock glare. Mark put his hand on Jesse's arm.  
"I'll clean it up, Jess. Sounds like they need you." Mark's clear blue eyes were shining with amusement, his voice echoing the same emotion. Jesse smiled back.  
"Thanks, Mark." He set down the cup and rinsed and dried his hand. "I'll catch up with you later." With that, Jesse was gone, leaving Mark wondering where the young doctor got so much energy. He seemed to have a thousand things going at once, but always had a ready smile and plenty of energy, both of which he made up for with his voracious appetite. Mark smiled at the thought, and then set to work cleaning up the mess.  
As soon as Jesse walked into the ER a nurse came hurrying up.  
"Dr. Travis!" He raised his eyebrows and nodded. He recognized her.  
"Theresa, you paged me?" She nodded.  
"I thought you would want to be here." Jesse raised his eyebrows. "I thought you would want to know that the man who just came in was a friend of yours." Jesse instantly tensed, feeling fear trying to paralyze his limbs and adrenaline beginning to seep through him. His mind flew instantly to Steve. His friend Steve was a police officer, and Mark worried about him, Jesse knew. Steve had been hurt before and admitted to the hospital. Jesse hoped fervently that it was someone else.  
"Where is he?" The nurse pointed to Trauma 1 and Jesse took off running, the nurse matching his stride. Inside Trauma 1, Dr. Camdyn was busy trying to stabilize a man lying on a table. Theresa moved to the other side of the table and checked the IV and vitals, doing whatever else she could to help. Dr. Camdyn looked up, not surprised to see his colleague come in.  
"Jesse. It's your friend, the detective." Jesse felt his heart sink to somewhere down in the basement and his stomach start to fold in on itself. Dread filled his mind and threatened to paralyze him, much as the fear was doing. But he fought back. There was no time - he had to help Steve. Jesse ran over to the table to stand beside Dr. Camdyn, and asked for his condition. The young doctor took it all in with a surprisingly clear mind, and immediately took over, getting ready to take his friend into surgery. Theresa reached over Steve's still form and grabbed Jesse's arm, much like Mark had.  
"Jesse, you can't! He's your friend, you'll..." She didn't finish, but Jesse wasn't listening anyway.  
"Theresa, I have to. That's my best friend lying there. If I don't do this, and something goes wrong-" His throat closed off at the thought and he had to swallow before going on. "I'll never forgive myself."  
//Or the other doctor,// Theresa thought as Jesse glanced at Dr. Camdyn. She sighed heavily and removed her hand from his arm. Taking this as a sign she'd given in, Jesse quickly began moving Steve towards the Operating Room. Theresa followed until Jesse turned to her suddenly, his eyes so dark a blue they were almost black. She had to repress a shiver.  
"Please, page Dr. Sloan. Tell him to meet me outside the OR after the surgery. Don't let him in, though." Theresa nodded quickly and hurried off to the nurse's station.

A few hours later by the clock, and a few years later in Mark's opinion, Jesse finally emerged from the OR, pulling the mask down from his face. Mark immediately hurried over to his young friend.  
"Jesse." Mark's voice was deep, as it gets when things are serious. "How is he?" Jesse sighed heavily and ran a hand absently through his now sweaty hair. Behind him, the doors opened and a nurse emerged. Steve was going to be removed to recovery, and Jesse didn't want Mark to see that. He turned and started walking in the general direction of the lounge, forcing Mark to follow and turn his back on the OR doors. "Jess?"  
"It's not good, Mark. Someone must have attacked him from behind. There's severe damage to his ribs, and his right arm is broken." Jesse filled Mark in as quickly as possible about the damage to Steve's internal organs and the blows to the back of the head. "He's been stabilized and they're taking him to recovery, but he's not out of the woods yet." Mark's head had dropped until he seemed to be fascinated with watching his feet, and his eyes were now the same dark shade that had so chilled Theresa. "I'm sorry, Mark." Mark lifted his head as if waking up and sighed, clapping Jesse on the shoulder rather weakly. He nodded, and Jesse realized he seemed to have aged years in the few minutes it had taken for Jesse to explain Steve's injuries and condition.  
"I'm going back to the doctor's lounge," Mark said hollowly. "Come get me when I can see him, Jess."  
"Of course, Mark." With that, Mark continued towards the lounge, and Jesse turned back to take his friend to recovery.


	4. Phase Two

Ch. 4 Phase Two

"Son." It was almost a question, but still Mark got no answer from his unconscious son. Steve had been in the hospital since the previous afternoon, and it was now getting towards evening. Mark placed a hand momentarily on his son's forehead, as if checking for a fever. There had never been much affection shown outwardly between the two men. But shown or not, the affection was there, and understood by both of them, and anyone else who cared to notice.  
Ever since Steve had announced his intention of becoming a police officer, Mark had worried about his safety. It seemed his worry was warranted, as Steve had been injured many times in the line of duty - the worst when he had been shot three times in Malcolm Trainer's brilliant scheme.  
Steve's forehead was neither hot nor cold, but Mark wasn't checking his temperature. He let out a long breath and closed his eyes, his face relaxing from the pinched and grieved look it had held since the previous afternoon when his world had seemed to fall apart. Steve had to wake up. That was all there was to it. Mark couldn't lose him so soon after losing his daughter, Carol only a few months previous. Steve hadn't woken since the surgery, though he wasn't really expected to for a few hours at least. He had slipped into some sort of sleep that was almost, but not quite, a coma. He was stable, but he still wasn't doing well. Mark's heart sank with every hour that passed, currently somewhere in the basement or subbasement.  
"I love you."

"All right, Jesse. Coffee." Mark sounded irritated, but Jesse knew it was just stress from his son's poor condition. It was Sunday evening and Mark had not yet left Steve's room. Jesse had tried unsuccessfully to get Mark to go home, or even to catch some sleep on the couch in the doctor's lounge, but had to settle for Mark leaving for five minutes to get coffee. Jesse shook his head slightly as Mark left the room. Every hour Steve stayed unconscious seemed to add a year to Mark's face. Jesse could almost see the time piling up on Mark's shoulders. The usual sparkle was gone from his eyes, and they were constantly dark.  
"Come on, Steve," Jesse whispered as he leaned to check his friend's vitals for any sign of change. "Come on."

//Phase Two begins now,// the man thought with a smile. He set down the flowers he'd brought in case anyone had questioned his presence. He looked around and down the corridor Sloan's room was in. It would be easier if he had a lab coat. The man glanced over his shoulder but saw no one. Turning around again, he shrunk back into a doorway as he saw a white-haired doctor come out of Sloan's room and go the other way. Smiling to himself, he followed, grabbing a bedpan from a cart as he went. Sneaking up behind the man just as he neared a supply closet, he brought the bedpan down hard on the back of the man's head.  
The man's knees gave and he started to fall without a sound. Catching him under the armpits, the man dragged the doctor into the nearby closet. It was only as he started to take off the man's lab coat that he saw his face and recognized him. Mark Sloan! The cop's father! The man smiled darkly.  
//He looks like he's aged years,// the man thought with satisfaction. //Must be grief and worry.// He touched a gray lock of hair, remembering. Then he smiled coldly. //This is too perfect. I could kill him now.// He hefted the bedpan. //No. Wait. How much more perfect would it be if I killed his son now, wearing his coat?// He chuckled quietly and then pulled on the lab coat and left the closet, closing the door behind him. //Let him taste /real/ grief.//  
He opened the door to Sloan's room soundlessly and snuck in. A young doctor stood over Sloan, checking the machines attached to him, keeping him alive. The man was slightly annoyed by the doctor's presence, but the young doctor hadn't yet noticed him, and the man still had the bedpan. Walking quietly up behind the doctor, he quickly brought the bedpan down the same way he had on the elder Sloan's head. The doctor crumpled to the floor, nearly hitting his head on the bed frame as he fell. Good. Perfect.  
Pausing only to decide which machine gave the most support, the man quickly disconnected the machine aiding Sloan's breathing, and switched off the heart rate monitor. The respirator wheezed to a stop, and Sloan began to wheeze, fighting to keep breathing. Sweat broke out on the detective's brow, and the man smiled.  
"Now you will die, and your father will soon follow." The man smirked. It was time to leave. But first he shrugged out of Dr. Sloan's coat and laid it over Lt. Sloan's form like a death shroud. The outline of his face could be seen under the white fabric as the detective struggled for air, fighting for his life. It would be a little more difficult to get out without the coat, but it was worth it. The man smiled again and left.


	5. Three Troubles

Ch. 5 Three Troubles

Amanda Bentley walked down the hallway towards Steve's room to see how he was doing. She was concerned about Mark as well, who hadn't left Steve's side. Just as she was passing the supply closet by Steve's room, there was a moan of pain from inside. She paused and placed a hand on the door, pushing it open slowly.  
"Hello?" The only answer was the moan repeated. "Hello? Is someone in there?" She opened the door the rest of the way. "Are you h- Oh my God, Mark!" Amanda rushed to her friend's side as he sat up, rubbing the back of his head. He checked his hand, which was clean, and then replaced it on his head again.  
"Amanda?" he asked foggily, still getting his mind back in gear. She immediately turned on the light and knelt beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder worriedly. "I'm fine, Amanda."  
"Mark, what happened?" She sounded worried and a bit scared. He shook his head.  
"Someone hit me over the head as I was leaving Steve's room for some coffee." Amanda saw his eyes move in the direction of his son's room as his thoughts returned there. He glanced down at his shirt suddenly, realizing something. "Whoever it was stole my lab coat," he said, puzzled. Amanda shook her head, unable to imagine why. Mark seemed to snap out of whatever daze he was in, and leaned on her arm to pull himself up. "I'm going back to Steve's room."  
"Why don't you go get that coffee?" Amanda objected. "I'll go in and sit with Steve until you get back." At his doubtful look she added, "I was on my way there, anyway." He sighed and nodded his assent.  
"Jesse's in there also." Amanda placed a hand on his arm and gave him a small smile.  
"See. Go get your coffee. Are you sure your head is okay?" She gave him a worried look. He nodded, touching it lightly and hiding a wince.  
"I'll take some aspirin too," he said, and walked away. Amanda turned back to the door to Steve's room, and opened it. When she stepped inside, the first thing she saw was Jesse's crumpled form on the floor.  
"Oh God, Jesse!" She turned and stepped back into the hall. "Mark!" she called after her friend. "Mark, come back, Jesse's hurt!" Mark whirled around, eyes wide, heart hammering in his chest. A small voice in his head told him something was terribly wrong. He almost ran back to the room. Inside, Amanda was trying to wake an unconscious Jesse, who was lying by Steve's bed. A white lab coat was draped over Steve's still form.  
//Death shroud,// Mark thought, and his heart skipped a beat. He sprang to his son's side and yanked off the coat. Something fell to the floor and Mark looked down to see a nametag. His nametag and ID. This was /his/ lab coat! Mark turned from the coat and tag to check on his son. Something was wrong. It was. //Too quiet,// he realized. The respirator was off, and so was the heart rate monitor! Mark's eyes fixed on his son's chest, which was no longer rising and falling.  
"Amanda!" Amanda's head jerked up at the sound of her name, and the harsh, frightened tones of Mark's voice. "Amanda, he's not breathing!" He felt for a pulse. Nothing. As she stood, Mark began CPR, trying to bring his son back. Amanda pushed the button announcing a code blue to the nurse's station and moved to take over rescue breathing.  
A minute later, a nurse rushed in with a defibrillator and Mark hurriedly hooked it up to his son, turning the monitor back on. Steve's body, so frail-looking all of a sudden, jerked with the first jolt. Flat line. Again. Steve's body jerked again. Flat line. Again! Flatli-no! A beep! His heart started again even as Amanda bent to plug the respirator back in.  
Jesse, who had woken just as the defibrillator had been wheeled in, was standing by the door, watching, his eyes dark and haunted. He breathed an enormous sight of relief as the steady beep of the heart rate monitor resumed.  
"Amanda," he said softly. She turned quickly.  
"Jesse! Oh good, are you okay?" She hurried over to him, tilting her head to look at his eyes, hands on his shoulders. He removed her hands, shaking his head.  
"I'm fine, Amanda. Just yet another mild concussion. How's Steve?" Amanda's eyes darted back to where Mark was seated by Steve's bedside, his son's hand held firmly in his own.  
"He flat lined. Whoever hit you over the head unplugged his respirator. He...he barely made it," she whispered. Jesse sighed and placed a hand on the back of his head, wincing.  
"He wasn't doing well to begin with," Jesse admitted, so softly that Amanda could barely hear him. He didn't want to admit that Steve had been barely clinging to life. That this might easily have killed him. Jesse shook himself out of his thoughts with a deep breath. Standing up, he reached for Amanda's arm. "Come on. Let's go get coffee or something." He glanced towards Mark and Steve. Amanda received the unspoken message, and nodded, following him out of the room.


	6. Passing Through

Ch. 6 Passing Through

Mark watched his son's face as it creased with the worry of some nightmare. Why wouldn't he wake up? He'd come so close to dying tonight. Mark didn't even want to think about that. So instead he spoke aloud to his sleeping son, telling him about the fun things they'd done when Steve was a boy. Remembering Katherine and the Christmas that Carol had joined them. Speaking about Amanda, Jack, and Jesse. He was in mid-sentence, remembering when Amanda had adopted Dion, when Steve's face suddenly spasmed in pain.  
"Steve?" Mark's voice sounded far too panicked for his liking, but he ignored that. "Steve?" he repeated. "What's wrong?" As if in some perverse answer, Steve's chest refused to rise with another breath, and the heart rate monitor's steady beeping gave way to one long tone. "No. Oh no, not again. Steve!" Mark wasn't even aware of speaking out loud. He punched the code blue button and started CPR for the second time that night. A minute later the door burst open again, this time with Amanda and Jesse pushing the defibrillator, faces drawn, eyes dark.  
"Mark, what happened?" Jesse asked as he hooked the defibrillator up to Steve's chest yet again. Park of him said it wouldn't work this time, and his mind was trying to ignore this and protest. //Of course it will! Steve can't die! He can't!// Mark stepped back and took the defibrillator paddles, shaking his head.  
"Nothing. It just…" He gave up trying to explain and instead placed the paddles on his son's bare chest. Shock. Jerk. Nothing. Shock. Jerk. Nothing. //Come on, son. Third time's a charm. Come back.// Shock. Jerk. Nothing. No! Again! "Again! Clear!" Shock. Jerk. Nothing. "Again!" His voice hoarse and torn with grief. Jesse's face drawn and pale. Amanda's face streaked with tears. Shock. Jerk. Nothing. Shock. Jerk. Nothing. "Again!"  
And then Jesse's hands were taking him by the shoulders and pulling him back. Amanda was turning off the defibrillator. The heart rate monitor's shrill, persistent tone was echoing in his ears. Jesse took the paddles from his limp fingers and hung them back on the machine.  
"Mark." He was being spoken to. "Mark." It was Jesse's voice. But Steve was all he could see. Steve's chest no longer rising and falling with each breath. His son's still, lifeless form. The body of his last child. Impossible. No, it couldn't be true. And then Jesse's voice coming through to him as he stared hopelessly at his son. "Mark. He's gone."


	7. Mocked By Sunlight

Ch. 7 Mocked By Sunlight

The man watched from the hallway, peering through the still-open door, as the elder Sloan and his friends tried to bring his son back. He tried to ignore the sweat forming on his brow and palms; tried to tell himself that it would be fine, Sloan would die.  
//It must happen,// he thought. //It will happen.// Even as he was thinking this, the young doctor he had knocked out, now awake, pulled Mark Sloan away from his son's body. The shrill tone of the heart rate monitor was the only sound. The man smiled. Glancing both ways down the hall, and finding it empty, he turned back to the scene.  
"I took your son from you, Dr. Sloan," he whispered almost soundlessly. "I took him from you as you took my son from me." He saw the expression of the older man crumble as he realized fully what had just happened. "Do not worry, Dr. Sloan. Soon you will forget the grief. Soon - tonight - it will be your turn to die as your son has died." His hands were shaking, as was his whispered voice. Not good. A sign of weakness. He knew what he must do. He must kill Mark Sloan, and then he must follow his own son. Smiling grimly, the man left the hospital.

Physically shaking, Mark made his way down the hospital corridor. Jesse and Amanda had finally convinced him to go home and "get some rest." Seeing that there was really no reason to stay any longer, Mark had agreed. He didn't think he'd be getting any rest, though. As he passed a nurses' station he tossed his rumpled lab coat into the trashcan. After a moment's thought he shoved his nametag and ID into his shirt pocket.  
Mark stepped outside the hospital's main doors and blinked, staring up at the sky. The sun. It was late morning, and an absolutely beautiful day. For a few minutes Mark could only stand there, staring up at the sky, his thoughts ground to a halt, unable to comprehend what he was seeing. How? How could the day be so beautiful and warm, when all he could feel was cold grief? The sunlight shone down gently, offering a warmth he could not feel, seeming in his mind to mock him. After another long minute, Mark dropped his head and went out to his car, forcing the tears back, at least until he could get home.

Jesse paced the length of the doctor's lounge, eyes on the floor, his intense gaze and clenched jaw and fists betraying his fury. Part of it was aimless anger that this had happened. Part was at Steve for leaving them: for doing this to him, to Amanda, and especially to Mark! And another part was at himself for not being able to stop whoever had killed his friend. He had been unconscious, sure, but he should have been more alert and heard the guy come in. Should have, should have, should have. It was making Jesse sick to his stomach.  
Amanda sat quietly on the couch, her dark eyes watching Jesse's progress back and forth across the room covertly. From the set of his jaw and the way his hands were clenched into fists she could see he was angry. And she had an idea she knew why. After a moment's debate, she decided to call him on it.  
"Jesse?" The young doctor paused in mid-step, and then turned to face her, eyes dark with the agony of grief. Looking into those eyes, Amanda was suddenly unable to go on. She stared back helplessly for a moment. Jesse heaved a sigh and flung himself down onto one of the chairs.  
"I-I can't do this." Jesse's voice was rough, and surprised Amanda. "Why didn't I hear him?" Jesse vented. "I should have heard him come in, should have - should have stopped him. Should have." Jesse cut off and dropped his head, running his hands through his hair with a strained sound. Amanda stood and went over t him, kneeling beside his chair and placing a hand on his shoulder as if comforting CJ or Dion. He looked up at her silently, and she reached out and pulled his head down to her shoulder, and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He sighed deeply, returning the hug. "Amanda?" he whispered.  
"Yes?" she answered, just as softly.  
"What are we going to do?" She sighed as deeply as she had, wanting to comfort him as she could with her sons, but unable to find the comfort in herself. She shook her head slowly, and then thought of Mark. If they felt as aimless as they did, how must Mark feel?  
"Jesse, are you up to doing something?" He pulled out of the hug and looked at her, face blank. "I can if you aren't," she added hurriedly.  
"No, I will. What do you need, Amanda?" She shifted her weight, and then moved to the chair beside his as her legs complained loudly to their cramped position.  
"Not me. Mark. Could you...well, follow him home? Make sure he gets there all right?" Jesse nodded immediately, and got up, glad for any excuse to do something, to keep from thinking about the guilt and the grief.  
"No problem. He was going to go to his office before heading out so I'll probably catch up easily." He reached into his pocket for his car keys.  
"Jesse," Amanda caught his hand, stopping his progress towards the door. "Don't let him see you. Just...make sure he gets there all right?" Jesse nodded his assent and hurried out.

Outside, Jesse saw Mark just climbing into his car, and hurried to his own. Quickly turning over the engine, Jesse pulled out behind Mark. As soon as was possible, he put a few cars between his car and Mark's, though he doubted the older man would notice him. Mark had been distant, closed off in his grief, and would probably not have seen Jesse if he drove alongside him.  
The trip passed without incident, and Jesse stopped on the opposite side of the street until Mark had gone in. He was just about to pull away from the curb, when movement caught his eye. Someone was emerging from the bushes by Mark's window. Jesse quickly killed the engine. The figure glanced around once, and then peered in the window. After staring inside for a good while he tested the window, which opened smoothly. Odd, that.  
Jesse opened his car door as quietly as possible, and slipped out. The young doctor ran across the street, keeping low, as the figure pulled himself up on the sill. From his hidden position in the shrubs, Jesse could see it was a man. He had a medium build, with dark brown hair and a shock of gray near the base of his neck on the right. After a moment's thought, Jesse realized it was from emotional stress. It was a medical fact that someone who has undergone immense emotional stress can lose pigmentation in their hair. It was a nice little phenomenon Jesse had picked up in some movie or other.  
By this time the man had slipped inside. Hurrying up the front steps, Jesse took the spare key from its hiding place and unlocked the door. Going in as soundlessly as possible, he closed the door, wincing as the snick of the latch catching seemed impossibly loud. Glancing around, he headed for the living room where he suspected the man was most likely to go.


	8. Memories Consume

Ch. 8 Memories Consume

Mark walked slowly through the living room and into the kitchen. He pulled his son's badge and gun from his jacket pocket, stared at them, and put them slowly in the drawer to the right of the sink. Eventually, he would have to give them back to the department, but for now… He walked back out into the living room, and stood there, staring out towards the ocean. The beautiful sight of waves crashing, gulls flying, and people jogging was lost on him, though. In his mind's eye, all he could see was Steve's still form jerking with the defibrillator's shock, and falling still. Jerking and falling still. And then nothing. Just the steady tone of the heart rate monitor blaring out its unbroken note until Amanda turned it off.  
Moving again, Mark passed the bookcase, his fingers tracing the shelf and then resting by a framed picture of him and Steve. They were sitting on the beach, on a log, and the sky was darkening behind them, turning the waves black. Mark had his left arm around Steve's shoulders and the firelight had been stopped in mid-flicker on their faces when the picture had been snapped. They had been having a barbecue with Jesse and Amanda a year before. Mark smiled as he remembered, tears starting to form in the corners of his eyes.  
Jesse had been teasing Steve again about those salads he wanted at BBQ Bob's. Steve had shot the most mischievous grin to Mark and Amanda, who were building the fire, and tripped the young doctor into the water. Jesse had latched onto Steve's ankles and hauled the taller man in with him. They'd both ended up tramping through the sand, up the beach to the house, wearing identical sheepish grins as they passed. He and Amanda had laughed, and the boys had gone in for changes of clothes.  
Mark smiled bitter-sweetly as tears formed a veil before his eyes, blurring the picture. He resumed walked, wiping his cheek with one hand as the first tear broke free. For a moment he paused in the doorway, and then continued into the hall. On a small shelf to the right, something caught his eye. A picture frame, catching the light and throwing it back to him. He stopped and picked it up, running his fingertips gently down the glass.  
Seven faces smiled out at him from in front of a Christmas tree. Norman, Jesse, Carol, Mark himself, Steve, and Amanda holding a baby CJ. As if he were watching a film the scene came alive in his mind. Norman buzzing around snapping pictures, Mark's two children together, getting along, all the smiling faces. The song broke free of his memory and he heard it so clearly that he blinked, sure it was playing somewhere. "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas." He could feel the tears streaming down his cheeks, falling silently, but didn't care, didn't bother to wipe them away. He simply stood there for a while, immersed in memories so thick he was breathing them, living them, could touch them and brush them away from his face. Mark dropped his head.

"Now you will follow your son, Dr. Sloan," the man whispered. He was outside of the Sloan residence, and practically unaware that he was speaking out loud. He had hidden himself in the bushes outside of Sloan's house and waited for him to return home.  
At last, Sloan had arrived. The man smiled as the thought crossed his mind. Sloan had arrived. Not "Dr. Sloan" or "Mark Sloan." The specification was no longer necessary. There was only the one Sloan here now. The man watched as Sloan went inside, walking slowly, no doubt feeling the weight of grief on his shoulders. He knew it well, himself. For a father to outlive his son... It wasn't meant to be that way.  
After waiting a moment, the man slipped from the bushes, hurried to the window, and glanced around. Seeing no one, he pulled himself up on the sill and slipped inside. He landed softly and immediately moved into the doorway, waiting. The man could hear Sloan's footsteps in the next room. He waited until they stopped, and began to head in, when they started again. He gritted his teeth and fingered the switchblade in his pocket, the knife he'd brought as a backup plan, and a way to follow his own son. But the footsteps faded as Sloan apparently left the room, heading deeper into the house. With a deep breath, the man entered the room Sloan had just left.  
It was the living room, with a breathtaking view of the ocean, and decorated with years of memories that must have been crushing Sloan. The man smiled again and took a look around to see which was Sloan had gone. The hall. The man flexed his fingers and followed.  
Sloan was standing in the hall, shoulders hunched as if weighted with a heavy burden, his right hand clutching a framed picture. Making no more effort to hide his presence, the man strode into the hall, his footsteps muffled but audible on the carpet. Hearing, Sloan whirled around, almost dropping the picture. Tears! There were tears rolling down Sloan's face! He had to stifle a laugh. Now, now he understood! His smile grew. Sloan's eyes were wide, face trading its grief-stricken expression for one of shock and fear. For a moment, the man simply stood there, soaking this up with pleasure. His thoughts went to his son, who must be watching him now and laughing the same laugh the man had to stifle.  
"Who are you?" Sloan's voice was rough, and he hastily wiped the tears from his face. "What do you want?" he asked, as the man continued to smile.  
"One question at a time please, Sloan." His voice was amused, betraying some of the laughter he held at bay. "My name is Carl Hanning." There was the barest flicker of recognition in Sloan's eyes. "Yes. You remember my son, don't you? You and your son," he laughed scornfully, "sent him to prison where he was killed. And now I'll take what it is I want. Your life, as I took your son's."  
Hanning watched Sloan's eyes darken. Ah! The ecstasy of grief, with something more: anger, and maybe even hatred. Sloan's eyes flicked from his for a split second, and then moved back. His jaw was set, eyes cold steel.  
"You took my son from me." It was a toneless statement, not a question. Hanning loved how he didn't bother with trivial questions like "why?" He nodded once. "And now you intend to kill me." Another statement. Another nod. "Because we sent your son to his death. Two lives for one?" Now, finally emotion in Sloan's voice. Anger and the clear statement that this wasn't fair. Hanning shook his head.  
"No. Two lives for two lives. You don't understand, but that's fine. I don't need you to." He flexed his fingers again. Sloan's eyes flicked down to them and back up. "Finally," he whispered…


	9. Is It Over?

Ch. 9 Is It Over?

And then pain exploded in the back of his head. His mouth fell open, expression disbelieving, and he crumpled gently to the floor. Jesse stood just behind where Hanning had been a moment before. He lowered the hand with the bust of Yogi Berra and heaved a sigh of relief, shoulders sagging. Mark similarly sagged with relief, and he shot the young doctor a small smile.  
"Thank you, Jesse." Jesse nodded silently, looking exhausted, and turned back to the living room to replace the bust. Mark followed him in, stepping around Hanning's still form. As soon as he entered the living room he grabbed the phone from the coffee table and called the police. He dialed 911 rather than the station to avoid Steve's coworkers and their sympathies. He shook off the thought, and turned to Jesse as soon as he'd hung up. //Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to see you, but...// "Why are you here, Jess?"  
"Amanda asked me to make sure you got home all right," Jesse answered, his mind saying //Don't tell me you're not glad to see me.// Neither he nor Mark had the energy to say the humorous thoughts out loud.  
"Well, I'd thought I had, but-" He was cut off by a flash of movement from the hall. Hanning! He'd woken up, and he didn't look too happy. He wavered a bit, but held the switchblade he'd somehow produced steadily enough. He laughed, a sound that sent chills down Mark and Jesse's spines. As if someone had been holding him back and now let go, he sprang forward.  
Mark stumbled back, caught his leg around the corner of the couch, and fell, landing beside the coffee table. Jesse wasn't so fast. Afraid of running into Mark, he tried to dodge to the side. Hanning's blade sliced through the material of his coat sleeve and made a shallow cut in Jesse's left arm. He gasped in pain and quickly moved further to the right to avoid another meeting with Hanning's knife. But Hanning wasn't interested in Jesse. He kept going forward, towards Mark.  
Seeing this, Mark stood up, his right hand reaching towards the coffee table to grab the closest thing to defend himself. His fingers touched cold metal and he grasped the object, bringing it up. Without realizing it, Mark's fingers fit around the object in perfect position, and he leveled the gun at Hanning's chest. Hanning laughed again, a sound completely devoid of sanity, shouted something from which Mark could only discern the word "son," and dove forward. Unthinkingly, Mark's finger tightened around the trigger. There was a loud, sharp crack, Mark's arm jerked, and Hanning fell forward onto the coffee table. He slid off and lay motionless at Mark's feet. Mark backed up slowly, staring at the gun.


	10. Game of Catch, Dad?

Ch. 10 Game of Catch, Dad?

"He's dead." Jesse had crouched beside Hanning's body to feel for a pulse. He looked up at Mark in relief, but the older man didn't see. He was staring at the gun. It was Steve's gun, the one he had just put into the kitchen drawer. Yet it had been on the coffee table just in time to save him. Coming into play just when he needed it. Like Steve had been, always rushing in with officers to arrest whomever Mark was trapping with their own words.  
As Mark stood staring at the gun in his hand, he was immersed in a sudden feeling of warmth. Steve's scent, so strong in his own rooms downstairs and blended with Mark's in the shared rooms, suddenly overpowered all else. It was like being wrapped in one of the more rare hugs between the two men. Steve's presence enveloped him. There was a distinct feeling of love and sorrow in Mark's mind, offset by a feeling of great joy that was completely out of place for Mark. Not his emotions.  
Tears formed again in Mark's eyes and he closed them. The now ever-present image of his son's limp body falling still for the last time was gone. Mark could see the beach outside at sunset. Steve stood there, twenty-five feet away, a baseball mitt on one hand, and ball in the other. He smiled warmly at his father.  
"Game of catch, Dad?" Mark could only stare, tears starting to fall from his closed eyes. Steve's smile warmed. He cocked his head to the side, face softening, and eyes bright with happiness. "I love you, Dad." Mark gasped and opened his eyes in an almost involuntary movement. Jesse was giving him an odd look that was sadness and confusion, but enough understanding to make it unusual. Mark smiled very lightly, very shakily.  
//I love you too, son.//  
Across the room, the baseball that always sat on a mitt on the shelf fell from its place.

The End


End file.
